


Marching Off to War

by shadesofbrixton



Series: Theme and Variations: The AU Collection [4]
Category: A Knight's Tale (2001)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - World War II, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-27
Updated: 2005-07-27
Packaged: 2019-10-09 12:05:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17406584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadesofbrixton/pseuds/shadesofbrixton
Summary: World War II: Geoff is a spy for England; Wat works in the mess. The front closes in.





	Marching Off to War

The first time Wat sees him, it's hailing out. Hail in summer, he wants to point out, is really sort of fucked up in a huge way. But no one really listens to him anyway, since he doesn't really ever talk, so he keeps his mouth shut, as usual. There's probably a reason that they'd give him – something about the unusual amount of smoke making it cloudier than usual, and rainstorms happening more often because of it, and he doesn't want their science. What he wants to know is: how the hell can it be this cold in May.  
  
He's scraping frost out of his hair when his commanding officer comes in, shoulders past him with a nod, and is dragging a blue and frozen looking man behind them. A refugee, Wat immediately assumes. But no, no, the man is speaking English, and he's speaking a  _lot_  of it. Faster than Wat can hear, as he sludges food onto plates in the mess hall, and the officer – who is joined by another – is nodding quickly, and looks like he wants to be taking notes.  
  
The line dwindles, and Geoff gets a cup of hot, strong coffee – well, coffee and dirt, mostly dirt at this point because he's almost out of coffee beans, which have to get saved for the General and his guests, but there's supposed to be a shipment coming any day now.  
  
They said that last week, too.  
  
They say it every week, but Wat isn't about to stop asking.  
  
He brings the coffee – black, because they have no sugar and milk is only allowed at breakfast – and half a loaf of bread over to the table and pushes it into the hands of the shaking man. His lips are blue, Wat notices, but not as blue as his eyes, which flick up to Wat's in startled recognition, a muffled thanks crammed in between the report he's giving to Wat's commanding officer.   
  
Wat nods, slams a knife home through the middle of the loaf, and goes to do dishes.   
  


* * *

  
  
Geoff stays for three days, the first time – long enough to get properly outfitted and fed. Lieutenant Thatcher somehow finds him normal shoes and clothes, and Geoff suspects that it might have something to do with the fact that they're both British, and neither one of them has any idea what they're doing in France. Familiar accents and stories of hometowns go far, when familiar faces are absent.   
  
He can't actually remember that much about Cheapside, but he fakes his way through the conversation, and Thatcher's grateful enough to bring him real boots, not the army kind, and wool trousers. He can't wear the army kind Over There.  
  
Over There is what he calls it when he's upset, because it's hard to be a realist when you're upset. It's hard to call it anything else, and he can't tell anyone – not even himself – that the French Resistance is dying. It's being strangled, a fist closing finger by finger on the throat of the result of this war, and Geoff is more than certain that he will not live to see the end of it.  
  
He doesn't particularly care anymore. There's a knock on the office door, and Geoff starts from the daze he hadn't realized he was in. He sighs, calls for entry, and starts buttoning up his shirt.   
  
The door swings open and he looks up to see the man who works the mess hall glowering down at him, and grins. It's the sort of frown that's perfect for a cigar, but he doesn't carry the smell with him.  
  
"Sweater," the man grumbles, not looking at him, and thrusts it toward Geoff. Geoff's the slightest bit amused by this modesty – he isn't used to being around soldiers, and he knows the troops have their own kind of forced privacy that he isn't a part of. He can't imagine laying in a tent, or a bunk, and hearing a man sob for his family or for his lost body parts or for the siege the next day and not be able to do something. He has to stop in the buttoning up of his shirt to accept it, and balances it on his knee while he finishes.   
  
Wat doesn't say anything when he pulls out the red armband, but Geoff doesn't meet his eye. He has to hold his breath and stare at the floor as he works it onto his arm. Only when it's out of sight can he exhale again, though it's hardly out of mind. He feels a bit more himself, now – warm, dressed, capable. He has to carry this with him, because he doesn't know the next time he'll be able to return to a base, let alone this one. It's been months before, sometimes it's weeks. But with the scrap of cloth gone and on, at least, he's doing his job. He can take comfort in that.  
  
But when he looks up to thank the man, he finds himself alone.  
  


* * *

  
  
By the middle of summer, Wat can't breathe from the stink.   
  
It's more than just bodies and rotting limbs and people being sick from nerves. It's more than the backed-up latrines and the slaughterhouse at the edge of base and the fact that there's no way to properly get rid of their waste from meals any longer. It's just the overbearing heat, and the disgusting horror of it all.   
  
Refuge comes from an odd places:  
  
Oranges.  
  
He isn't sure where the shipment's come from, but there's already six crates stacked next to the entrance of the mess hall when he arrives for the dinner shift, and some of the men are unloading the back of a jeep with the rest. There's a cloud of dust coming down the main road and it creaks to a halt at his side, another jeep, which Delves is driving. There's a man sitting on the crossbar beaming down at all of them, with one foot on another crate each.  
  
It takes Wat a moment to recognize the man as their spy with the French Resistance, he looks so different. Fuller in the face, now, and grinning, like he knows he's done something fantastic. He pops the top off one of the crates and tosses an orange down to Wat.   
  
Wat's mouth explodes in saliva as soon as the smell of citrus hits his nose, and he looks up, startled, at the man, who is grinning down at him.   
  
The man doesn't do much more than slap Delves on the back, who chortles at him as he hauls another few crates of oranges out of the back and adds to the stack. Then his happy gaze is back on Wat, and he vaults out of the back and lands in front of Wat, a thin black t-shirt stretched over his chest and grey, perfectly pressed slacks covering his long, lean legs.   
  
There isn't a spot of red on him.  
  
"Make sure all the men get one," he tells Wat, as though it'll be any trouble to pass off fresh fruit to the troops.   
  
"'Course I will," Wat says, rankled by the idea that he isn't doing his nutritional duty.   
  
Geoff beams at him, plucks the orange out of his hand, and grins up at the skin, as though there is something there worth seeing. "Don't know how they let you out with hair like that. Germans'd shoot you on sight."  
  
Wat punches him in the jaw before he realizes what's happened, and Geoff is blinking wildly and cupping at his face, squinting.   
  
There isn't anything to say after that, so Wat leaves before any questions are asked.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
"No, no, no," Geoff is saying. "No. You don't understand. The Italians are done for. They're tired. We could win them so easily – "  
  
"They're not to be trusted," Adhemar says, in his lazy, self-assured way. The man studies his fingernails, and Geoff smashes the urge to overturn the card table where it hangs underneath the lazy lantern. "They're fascists."  
  
"Fascists aren't killing the Jews," Geoff says baldly, and it makes the mousy looking blonde man at Adhemar's side look exceedingly nervous.   
  
Adhemar looks thunderous. "I will not compromise my – "  
  
"It's about the safety of your men!" Geoff cuts him off fiercely. He wants to shake the man by his shiny black locks – doesn't he understand? He's putting his own neck at risk to get this information. "The Italians won't shoot unless there's a German next to them. They're revolting en masse, and – "  
  
"Enough," the sergeant says coldly, and stands from the table. His assistant scurries after him to hold the tent flap open, and Geoff watches them go before he collapses his face into his hands. He is tired, and hasn't slept, and it is far too hot to deal with anything this ridiculous. With a mighty sigh, he pillows his face into the corner of his arm and slumps down onto the table.  
  
It's some time before he hears the flap open again, and he hadn't realized how close he was to sleep until he's shaken out of it by the noise.   
  
"Oh," says the man. "It's you." His hair is bronzed by the shadow of the lamp overhead, and he moves to clear up the plates and cups left scattered around. "I didn't know you were here."  
  
"Were you watching for me?" Geoff asks tiredly, and means nothing by it, but it makes the other man glower at him.   
  
"'Course I wasn't," he mutters, and grabs for a cup.   
  
Geoff pushes the chair out with his foot. "Sit. I could use a conversation with someone who isn't an idiot."  
  
Wat is watching him carefully, like he thinks he's going to somehow be the punch line to this joke, but Geoff doesn't say anything else. So he sits, and twists his rag idly in his hands. "I heard you yelling," he says. It comes out accusatory.  
  
Geoff massages his eyeball. "Adhemar's an idiot."  
  
"He's my commanding officer," Wat tells him.  
  
"Doesn't make you an idiot," Geoff points out, and starts rummaging through his knapsack. His hand closes around his prize, a slightly bruised green apple, and he rolls it across the table to Wat, whose eyes light up.  
  
Over the fruit, the bad bits cut away and the seeds carefully saved by Wat – Geoff doesn't want to think about why, doesn't want to think that they'll be here long enough for a tree to grow and bear fruit – they exchange names. It's a relief, in some ways, but in others, it's worse. Having names for faces means that when you see the lists of dead, you know what the person used to look like.   
  
It isn't something Geoff wants to see. Not ever.  
  


* * *

  
  
Through Delves, Wat finds out more about Geoff. That he's British, but he was captured in France at the time of the occupation, and that the Germans think he's doing recon into Britain for them. He gives them false information when he can, and shreds of truth when he must, but the intelligence that he brings back to General Black in return is worth more than what he gives away.   
  
When Wat asks why on earth a man would keep doing such a thing, instead of fleeing back to London as soon as he was able, Delves answers only with a shrug. "We've all got our reasons," he says, with a decisive, sage nod. And then he pins Wat with a savvy expression. "Maybe you ought to just ask him, then?"  
  
Wat scowls at the idea of being accused of inappropriate curiosity, however well placed it is. But the more he thinks about it, the more likely it seems the man will answer his questions. He seems to like to talk, anyway. And doesn't mind that Wat's better at listening.  
  
The only problem is that Geoff doesn't show up.  
  
He asks the newsclerk if she's seen him when she comes with the mail, and she tells him that she hasn't – but that she's got letters for him from as far away as the United States with all sorts of confidentiality stamps on them, and that if Wat sees him he's to send Geoff along to her right away. The nurse hasn't seen him, either, and he almost asks Adhemar when he changes his mind.   
  
It's Lieutenant Thatcher who shakes him awake one night, pale faced and unhappy, and tugs him out of his bedroll. "You'd better come have a look," is all he says.   
  
Wat stumbles into a shirt and follows him out of the tent, along the lantern-lit and guarded way toward the mess hall. Toward the back, stretched out on a table, is Geoff. He's coughing rather nastily, and he's got a gash through his side, but he's joking with the nurse while the nurse stitches him up.   
  
At the side of the gash, Wat's questions fall away. "You're bleeding on my table," is all he manages.  
  
"Barbed wire," Geoff says with a laugh-cough, and draws a line with his finger across his gut, and makes a vicious slicing sound.   
  
Wat doesn't say anything the rest of the night, under the small pool of lantern light, but he doesn't move, either. He's vaguely aware of the others setting Geoff to rights, giving him a balled up blanket as a pillow and leaving him to sleep on the table. Wat slumps onto his own hands and dozes fitfully, thinking that neither of them will ever catch a wink on the table, as hard as it is.  
  
When he wakes, Geoff is gone, and there's a plum in his hand.   
  


* * *

  
  
The problem, Geoff thinks, as he trudges along the early autumn roads, is that the pale orange hair illuminated by twilight won't get out of his head. Or the heavy bright shock of it under sunlight. Or the blue eyes of melted glass.  
  
It's distracting.  
  
He walks through Germany, from nearly one end to the other, and as he sees the mass graves dug and the bodies thrown in – some alive, he thinks, but it could just be the expressions they've died with – he realizes he's looking for that color.  
  
He never finds it.  
  


* * *

  
  
"No one knows why you're in the service," Geoff says in lieu of a greeting.   
  
Wat, startled, looks up from the potato he's clutching. He's got a peeler in one hand and the pot between his thighs, and he's sitting on the high prep counter with his back against the wall. He blinks for a moment, and after his brain unfreezes at Geoff's expectant expression, replies. "How's your middle?"  
  
Geoff pushes two fingers to his side automatically, but doesn't wince. "It's fine. You're avoiding the question."  
  
"Does it matter?" Wat growls, and begins hacking at the potato's skin again. The peels come off in a fast little flurry.  
  
"Yes," Geoff says, and slides up on the table next to him, swinging his long legs idly. "No one does this without a reason." He pauses, as though waiting for Wat to ask him. Wat doesn't ask, but he does want to know. "They killed my wife."  
  
It makes Wat start a bit, but he doesn't halt. Dinner's got to be made, whether or not it's impossible to visualize someone like Geoff married. "You don't wear a ring," Wat points out, and realizes his mistake too late – that Geoff will know he's checked.  
  
"It was a long time ago," Geoff says, and Wat can tell from the way he says it that it's true. His legs stop swinging, and the sigh is tiny, but it's there. "Anyway, there didn't seem to be much reason to stop, so I kept on after she died. It's easier when you haven't got…" He stops, but Wat knows what he means.  
  
There's a long stretch of silence before Wat says anything. He switches to a new potato, and lets the peeled one drop into the pot of water, but doesn't say anything. He watches the surface ripple against the edges of the metal, almost hypnotic. It's easier if he doesn't look at Geoff.  
  
"It was your family, wasn't it," Geoff says quietly.   
  
It takes a moment, but Wat manages a tight nod. Geoff releases another sigh, and reaches over to pull the potato and the peeler out of his hand. It feels a bit ridiculous, now, one hand a bit dirt-tinged from the soil on the skins, to be clutching food.   
  
"How many?" Geoff's voice is the same, level quiet.  
  
Wat swallows his first try at the word, and then comes up with, "Twenty."  
  
Geoff's exhale is a sound of surprise, and he retreats back up against the wall. "That's…a big family."  
  
Another nod from Wat, who picks up the potato again and starts peeling. Then, as the white flesh of the vegetable comes clear, his words come out. He's never told anyone. Not even the recruiting officer. No one cares – they need bodies to fill the lines, they don't care why. "We – they were living in France. It…" He frowns, tight and angry. "It's the hair. Our neighbors reported us as gypsies. They took them away to the camps." These are the facts that he knows, because this is what the French police told him the night before he fled town. It's no use to try and tell him that they don't all have the crazed shock of orange, that it was really only a handful – that there were women, children. Gone.  
  
All gone, and just Wat, and with nothing else to do, there'd been this, at least.   
  
Geoff seems stricken by the words. Not like most others, though – most others who look uncomfortable at the mention of the camps and look away, not sure what to say. Geoff looks like there are too many words and he can't pluck just the right ones.   
  
"There's a chance – " he starts.  
  
"No," Wat crushes it savagely, and drops the potato into the water. "There's no chance. They're dead." Chance is risky, and chance will get him killed. He must fight this war the only way he knows how.   
  
Geoff doesn't say anything after that, but he does help with the potatoes. Which, in a way, is really more thoughtful than it ought to seem.  
  


* * *

  
  
Two showers a week is not nearly enough in the summer time. But toward the fall, it isn't bad, because people don't smell quite so badly. The temperature hasn't dropped to an uncomfortable level yet, but it isn't anywhere near warm during the days. Geoff's started wearing the sweater again, the one Wat gave him, because it's nondescript and warm.  
  
He shoves through the haphazard bathhouse that was set up after the troops had been stationed here a year, same as the mess hall, and is grateful to see that it's empty. He needs time to think, after his last report – the Americans are moving faster now, are helping more, and the Russians are moving down, and there's something like hope on the horizon, if he lets himself think that way. It's a dangerous sort of place to be. So he needs quiet, so that he can think this over, and so that he won't blurt out the good news to the first person he sees.  
  
He shoulders into the shower room and goes toward the changing benches, and slings his towel down. It takes a moment before the white noise of water running registers in his ears, and then he's more curious than his own good. He pokes his head around the corner to see who's using the shower, and sees the trickle of steam that doesn't cover a damn thing drift up near Wat's shoulders. They don't have much hot water, so showers have to be short, but Wat's taking his time.  
  
His hands are between his thighs, moving, and Geoff yanks his head back so fast he thinks he may have snapped something. He's sure Wat will be able to hear him or his heartbeat, but when he stops to listen, he realizes that it's quiet, save the water.   
  
Wat's breathing is a quiet, heady sound beyond that, and Geoff forgoes the shower in favor of his sanity, and hides in his bedroll to count the hours before he'll leave in the morning.  
  


* * *

  
  
It's Christmas Eve the next time Wat sees him, and he's entirely disturbed to see the man wearing a red felt hat. There's a white bauble dangling from its floppy point, and he's got a sack over his shoulder. "Presents from the General," he explains, and rummages inside to pull out an oddly wrapped packet for Delves, who is helping Wat scrub down the stove. "Careful of that, there's needles," he warns needlessly.   
  
Delves scampers off to unpack his needles, or whatever else there could be inside, and Wat turns his bewildered look away from his mate to Geoff.   
  
"Sewing kit," Geoff supplies in a hushed, amused tone. Like it's a secret that Delves is the best tailor they have. The man can make new clothes from nothing.   
  
"What've you got for me?" Wat demands, and only realizes the split second after he's said it that the answer is, possibly, nothing.   
  
"Ah," Geoff says, and plunges a hand not into the sack but into his own pocket. He comes up with a baggie filled with brown dirt.   
  
"Coffee," Wat breathes.  
  
"Coffee," Geoff answers with a grin. "From the General himself."  
  
The coffee lasts him a week, and he shares it with Delves and Thatcher, and offers it to the nurse and the mail girl but they decline – Geoff's given them tea.  
  
The grin, though, lasts him far longer, and he shares it with no one.  
  


* * *

  
  
Sometimes, when Geoff loses hope, he finds himself in the dark corners of Wat's tent. Neither of them sleep. Instead they stare at the dark, stained nylon of the roof, and speak quietly, in an attempt not to let the others hear.   
  
"Is it wrong," Geoff says, "that sometimes I think it'd be better for the war to just end, regardless of the outcome?"  
  
"No," Wat says. "Yes." He stops to think. "You shouldn't say things like that."  
  
Geoff heaves a sigh into the dark. "I know. I'm just – it's – it's awful out there, you know. Sometimes…"   
  
But he never says what. They've had conversations like this before, about what they want to do After, or what they'd done Before. But really, in the end, none of it matters.  
  
All that matters, Geoff knows, is the war. The war he can hear coming closer – the explosions and popping he hears at night now, in the distance.  
  
The front is closing.  
  


* * *

  
  
Wat awakes to his trousers being thrown in his face. It's Thatcher again, but he doesn't say anything – not anything that Wat can understand, but he is yelling. It's a few weeks after the New Year, and Wat can see his breath as he races his clothes on and finds his gun. His gun that he hasn't touched in months and months.  
  
Coming out of the tent is like stepping into another world.  
  
All of their buildings, the tent city, all of it is destroyed and in shambles. Dark clouds of smoke have filled the air, and the distant rumble of tanks and cars is becoming not so distant any longer. He can see his troops – many of them, at least, and they're all running in the same direction. He runs with them, he knows his place, there is much to do, and this is what all of this has been leading toward, but something feels –   
  
There. A shock of grey and brown, and it grabs him by the arm. The dirt explodes around them and Geoff pulls him behind a building. "Stay back from the front," he pants, a pair of aviator goggles inexplicably propped onto his forehead. "Wait until their machine guns run out. Keep out of range." He can barely speak, he's breathing so hard.  
  
"You – " Wat wants to ask.  
  
"I've got to go," Geoff tells him. He grimaces, and opens his coat – the red again, splashed on his chest.  
  
"You'll be killed," Wat tells him, horrorstruck. Dressed as a German, on the wrong sides, Geoff can't survive this. No one can.   
  
"I've got to," Geoff repeats, and pushes him off. "Go, you'll be missed. Go."  
  
Wat clutches at his arms, and realizes that he's being clutched back. Doesn’t understand any of this. "No," he says forcefully, "You'll – "   
  
But a fierce kiss silences him, brief and burning and hot against his mouth. Then Geoff pushes him away. " _Go,_ " he grates as he stumbles away. One last look, and he's gone.  
  
One last look, and he's dead.  
  


* * *

  
  
The war goes on for five more months.   
  
And then, against all hope and reason, the war ends.  
  
The Allies win.  
  


* * *

  
  
Come fall, there isn't much for Wat to do. He goes to the ceremonies, and tries to avoid the funerals, and is shocked when he learns that most of his friends have survived. Still more shocked when pictures start to get published of the people they pull from the camps – the human skeletons worked to death while they all sat around and ate fruit.  
  
Wat can't think about it anymore, and his leg is bad from what happened in April, so he goes south. The south of France, far away from his family home. His French is passable, and it's easy to open up a small bakery. It turns into a small restaurant, after a few months. No one knows him, but they don't have to ask what happened. There are enough of his sort everywhere.   
  
Life goes back to normal.  
  
Except it doesn't.  
  


* * *

  
  
By September, Geoff is a free man. A British citizen again. But the Britain he left ten years ago is nothing like the shadowed empire he finds today, and so he takes to traveling again – looking for something, but he doesn't know what. He visits old friends and contacts, conversing with them in the shadow of back rooms and parlors.  
  
No one, not really, can believe that all of this is over.  
  
He feels hungry all the time now, but more importantly, feels like he's allowed to eat. And has the money to do just that. It's late evening, and most restaurants are just closing up, but he ducks into one that seems cheerful. More cheerful than Geoff feels, really, which is precisely what he needs.   
  
There's a girl by the cash drawer counting out the till. She's tiny and skinny and looks like she hasn't had proper food in far too long. Geoff has to crush the urge to look at her with pity in his eyes – instead he just oozes his exhaustion, and wonders if he can get a cup of tea.   
  
"Bonsoir," he says heavily.  
  
"Nous sommes fermés," she says without looking up. It gives him a chance to study her – how she looks familiar, but he can't put a finger on why. She glances up at him in agitation, and the dull candle light makes her tightly pleated hair reflect a dull auburn, and it makes something in him wrench unhappily.   
  
"Je suis – " he begins, wanting to tell her he's sorry.  
  
"Rosie, have you got the till closed up yet?" There's a man wiping his hands on a towel, such a familiar twist-wipe-wrench of the fingers, who comes up beside her. The girl smiles up at him.   
  
"Nearly," she says.   
  
Geoff makes a strangled sound, and Wat looks over at him, and every muscle freezes in both of them.  
  
"Oh," Rosie says, dawning comprehension. " _Oh_ ," she adds. And then, quite reasonably, she scuttles away.  
  
"I thought – " Wat starts.  
  
"Your  _sister_  - " Geoff extorts, rising slowly to his feet. His hands are flat on the counter, and so are Wat's, and they're close, but for the plastic between them.  
  
"She…" Wat gropes for a word which Geoff figures will be inadequate. "Lived," he finishes with a helpless shrug.   
  
"So did you," Geoff breathes in wonder, and then wraps a hand around the back of Wat's neck and yanks him closer for a wild kiss – the kiss they shared on the battlefield, resumed. Except at the end of this one, there is not death, but life that awaits them both.  
  


* * *

  
  
The thunder wakes Wat.   
  
His eyes open in time to see the lightning come alive just outside his window, through the light curtains that don't do much over the shutters. One of them has blown open, and the rain is sheeting against the glass heavily. The thunder quakes again, and the arm around his middle tightens.   
  
"Mm?" Geoff says, both of them on their stomachs, curling closer.   
  
"Shs," Wat whispers, turning away from the window and into the embrace. When he can, he lets his fingers thread through Geoff's hair.   
  
It makes the other man sidle closer to him, slides down a bit so he can circle both arms around Wat's waist, and presses his mouth to the middle of his chest. The blanket slips low, and Geoff's bare hip and thigh are exposed to the cool fall air. He shivers against Wat, until Wat tucks them both back in.  
  
"Warm," Geoff murmurs against his skin.   
  
"Mm," Wat agrees, his body wracking every time the thunder plays.   
  
"'s just a storm," Geoff tells him, as he does every time. Wat doesn't get particularly tired of hearing it. The arms tighten around him. "'ll keep you safe."  
  
"Idiot," Wat whispers into his hair.  
  
Geoff makes a sound of general agreement, and tips up to kiss his mouth. It wakes them both up a bit more, and the thunder makes the glass rattle, which makes Wat jump.   
  
"It'll pass," Geoff says. "In time."   
  
Wat isn't sure if he means the storm or his reaction to it. But given time, he thinks most things do tend to pass. Given everything they've seen, he can't help but think otherwise. He twists and fidgets in Geoff's arms, curling up and over so that they're back to front, and he's pressed against Geoff's chest. The window gleams back at him, dull moonlight shining through the storm clouds.   
  
The storm moves slowly, but Geoff's breathing evens. In his arms, Wat finds sleep again.   
  
In the morning, there is rain, but the clouds are gone.


End file.
